


Fall On Your Knees

by buttpatrol



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Emmanuel makes bread, Multi, Post- Try to Live Normally, Rosana is trying to make it work, Samothes show me how to say no to this, When you have a very odd intense friendship, because this equals who respect each other and ignore any romantic tension, but you keep at in anyway, content warning for a brief flashback to the whole Samot's tower ordeal, is working out okay so far right, people consider what it means to be faithful, that might end up with one the parties stabbing the other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 08:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10681179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttpatrol/pseuds/buttpatrol
Summary: Everyone knows that the Ordennan warrior, and the Velasian Paladin of Samothes have a weird destructive friendship and are just too polite to mention it, presumably.





	Fall On Your Knees

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is brought you by too little sleep and too much listening to "Hadrian and His Son". Biggest of thanks to Madeline_Starr!! who edited this because I am a train wreck of ill-used punctuation and tenses!! All other mistakes are my own. At any given time I have no idea how many "N's" are supposed to be in the word Ordenna (Ordena?)

Rosana bends at the waist, kneels, knees and the tops of barefeet pressed again bare floor. Every morning she does this, faces east and prays to our Lord Samothes.

“Come back to me,” she whispers. “Bring him back to me.”

They had married young. He’d been shy and earnest, awkwardly wearing his new name, Hadrian, like a cloak he had yet to grow into. He gave himself to things bigger than himself so easily, and with borderline ridiculous sincerity, like his life was a small and inconsequential thing compared to the tasks their God set before him.

She’d loved that about him, once.

She felt like she missed him at the most foolish times: When she tended to the garden at the church, when she had to pull up a stool to reach something on the highest shelf in their pantry, when she made too much tea in the evenings.

She soldiered through missed birthdays and milestones, straight shouldered and resolute, and then a wheel on the cart would break, or Benjamin would catch fever, and just _too much._ She could make it by herself, of course she could.  People made it by themselves all the time, it was just _so hard sometimes dammit,_ and she wish in-secret, in the dark at night curled into herself on their bed that Hadrian wasn’t such a good man. That it was easier to resent him.

“Come back to me,” she whispers, bitter and almost inaudible to the darkened room. “Come back.”

Samothes brings her husband back just before High-Sun Day.  He brings with him the oppressive press of winter.

 

 

 

Rosana wishes she could blame it on the snow, which seemed to fall endlessly, suffocatingly. Or on poor corrupted Lucius, who had betrayed them, and laid yet another burden on Hadrian’s shoulders.

In her heart she knew it had started before then. When he first came home from the Erasure, weary and beaten. He had been even more kind and loving that usual. Even though he had seemed _so tired._ Had hugged her just a little too tightly, thrown himself into playing with Ben with a fierce eager intensity.  Like he was worried that his time was limited

She meets the snow elf by accident. She had gone to the city center with Ben where emergency supplies were being distributed, and there he was, quick smile and mountainous dog.  Just like Hadrian had described. She wanted badly to resent him, too. For guiding Hadrian into that blighted spot, for bringing the snow of his home back with him. She wanted to corner him, tell him who she is and question him, _What really happened in that tower? What is Hadrian hiding--_ but he smiles at her so kindly and hands her a pile of makeshift winter clothes, tells her how to plant root vegetables so they will survive the cold, before moving on to the next person. She lets herself be swallowed back into the crowd, turning the child sized mittens over in her hand, before passing them to Ben.

 

 

  
It’s cold when she wakes up now, she pulls on a coat over her night dress, before kneeling. The cold drafts that leaked through the floorboards sting her hands and feet and her breath forms in clouds in front of her as the whispered prayers spill through her lips.

It doesn’t help. Samothes doesn’t answer her prayers to keep their house warm. Or later, to bring the sun back. Or later still, when the stars fall from the sky.

By the time Aloysha shows up at her door, she has stopped praying altogether.

 

 

Rosemerrow is the farthest from homes she has ever been. And it’s there, on a hilltop, snow bright in the moonlight that he tells about the Wizard, and the the Cult of the Dark Sun, and the women who killed a star, and the end of all things.

Rosana feels sick, feels like her throat and stomach have been filled with rocks. A part of her is relieved, finally there is a few less secrets between them. All this time she has wanted to share the load, to take some of the weight he carries for her own, to have a thing they can work through together. On the other hand it seems _hopeless_. The breadth of the task is so undefined and dangerous. She can’t see what Hadrian could do against all of it. He wouldn’t come back from this. Like a tiny vessel smashed against the rocks in a storm. Let someone else do this. Let them live in peace.

And then, Hadrian tells her about the the bubble universes. About how they are safe. And he gives her a choice. It’s really not a choice at all.

  
  


_“Your father is a very important man, and just because--. Just because he is needed by so many people, doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you most of all.”_

  
  


There is not really a morning here. The tents stretch for miles now. Crowds of people huddling around fires under heavy furs. They gather when the moons are out, and sleep when the shadow of Hieron covers them.

She pulls her hood tightly around her face and heads south, to where the hills overlook the lights of Rosemerow down below. If she just walks fast enough, keeps her shoulders straight enough and looks forward, maybe she can not think about them. Peel potatoes. Tend the sick. Settle arguments. Throw herself into things bigger and outside herself. She is fine, she is fine, she is--

She clenches her hands into fist, and then relaxes them. Takes a breath. And allows herself, just for a  few second, to picture Ben’s face. _Come back to me, please._

But no, he is safe. He will live on even if the world ends.

She ducks into the privacy of the mess tent. Intending just find a place to breathe, to collect herself.

“Oh, hello.” the voice is soft, and almost melodic.

There is a young man here, brown eyes and messy hair, covered in flour, and looking equally as startled as she feels.

“Ah, sorry. I just came in here to…” she trails off.

“Brood?”

“Well, yes. I suppose” she says primly.

He gives her a nervous half smile. “Understandable. It’s been a rough few months for everyone. I miss my bakery. And my city.... And a boy.” He let out a sigh that sounded halfway between amused and very, _very_ tired. “There is not much I can do to fix any of that. But I can make bread. So I make bread.”

He is probably undead, she guesses, which still seem unnatural and somehow... sacrilegious, but if she has learned anything in the last few months, it’s that you can get used to _anything._  Rosana sits down on bench opposite him. “I don’t know what has happened to Velas. My husband is somewhere to the south, serving the church. And my son. He is-- He is-” she made a circular hand motion. “--not here… anymore.”

“Where ever he is, I hope it is warm,” the man says mildly, shaping and re-shaping a lump of dough.

She nods, closing her eyes.

He offers her half the dough, and she accepts.  Folding and kneading it does help. Repetitive patterns, pushing cold air into the wet mass of flour.

She takes a deep breath and offers the man a weak smile, “So,” she starts, not breaking the motion of kneading, “Tell me about this boy.”

He puts a hand to his mouth, trying not to laugh, “Tristero,” he breathes, “He is basically… the worst,” he adds fondly.

He tells her. And she listens. And she talks about her own family in better times. And they make bread.

 

* * *

 

 

The inn is modest, but it’s their last stop before pushing on to the tower, their last night with beds and four solid walls.

Hadrian should sleep. His eyes hurt, and this throat feels raw, and he feels tired down to his bones, and everyone is looking at him with eyes that say “Hadrian, buddy, go the fuck to sleep.”

He won’t though. Not yet. Not till he can close his eyes without seeing the moonlit hilltop. Benjamin’s hands on his. The nervous trust and smallness of his voice when he asked for his father to come with him. Rosana’s red-rimmed eyes. The mix of pity and approval in Arrel’s sidelong glances.

He should have prayed to be immune from the need to sleep _this_ time too.

Still, maybe he could just lay down for a moment. Just to be a little farther away from the noise and the lamp light and the smell of overcooked meat.

The room is quiet. A thin sliver of moonlight pours in through the window, falling across the bedspread on to the floor in a blade of light  Hadrian’s hand goes to his own hilt, half instinct, half caught up in memory.

He doesn’t understand what Samothes wants him to do. He doesn’t understand what _Samot_ wants him to do for that matter. He thinks of Benjamin. Of Rosana.

He silently prays that he has done the right thing. That he is _doing_ the right thing.

He takes off his armour, piece by piece, in ritualistic silence and then collapses into the bed like a landslide.

A figure enters, with a tell-tale rattle of scalemail.

“Hella?”

“Shhh, go to sleep.”

“What are you doing?”

“We were talking, and came to a decision -- as a group-- that we should maybe check in on you,” she set her rucksack on the floor and takes out a small whethered book.

“I look that bad, huh?”

“You look pretty bad.” she confirms, sitting on flooring leaning her back against the bed, opening the book in her lap, “Look, we don’t know what happened, with Aloysha and your family. But, it was probably not great. With Ordena…”

“Marchinging on Velas,” he says dryly.

“Mm,” she agrees, flicking through the book.

Hadrian stares at the back of her head for a moment, before trying again. “You don’t need to stay. I am fine, I can--”

“Look,” she says shortly, the line of her shoulders tensing, “You are stuck with one of us. And it its either me, Adaire who is not above feeding you a mild poison to get you to sleep, or Throndir. Who will probably want to talk about _feelings_.”

Hadrian rolls onto his back, with a small huff of laughter, “Fine.”

Another long pause, “Is that the Ordenan book, you have been working on?”  
  
She makes a noise of agreement.

“Do you need any help with it?” he offers hopefully.

“Hadrian. Go to sleep. You look like crap. You are giving _me_ a headache looking at you.”

He sighs, closing his eyes. This is wierd. He can feel the weight of her pressing against the bed. Hear the regular rhythm of her breathing. It is weird. They have a strange, intense relationship. They have had a weird relationship since day one, when he stood across from her on a Velasian dock and pretended not to notice how everything fiber and bone in him warned him that something was _wrong_ with her, with her sword. He knows it’s weird. She knows it’s weird. Adaire and Throndir _definitely_ know. Everyone knows that the Ordennan warrior, and the Velasian Paladin of Samothes have a weird destructive friendship and are just too polite to mention, presumably.

 _Not everyone,_ a traitorous voice in the back of his head reminds him.

He had told Rosana so much, but not everything. Not about Samot, or his troubled faith. Not about Ephrim who seems to shine so much brighter and with all the conviction Hadrian lacked.  And not about Hella.

She was just the one with the sword. A tremendous warrior who battled a star, and led an army and won. Only that.

He can’t manage to put into words how it felt to watch her plunge her sword into the star, a horrible gash in the universe that leaked a dead white light. The awe. The swell of pride when she did the right thing and came to the aid of Old Man’s Chin. The way that if felt like if he could save _her_ from walking down the wrong path, he could somehow save _himself_. The Tower, where had saw her, another Hella, Fierce and proud and alone. She had looked at him, and it had felt like she could see to the very core of him, and it had shaken him.

He couldn’t describe it in a way that sounded normal, and reasonable, and like he was not _somewhat fixated_ on the idea of Hella Varal. He was too close to it, this weird complex knot of feelings that lives in chest now. So he doesn’t describe it. There is nothing to describe, anyway. Nothing that's not in his own head.

Somehow that feels like a worse betrayal.

His thoughts drift back to the tower at the Erasure. Velas was burning in the distance, and she had looked at him with that violent sadness in her eyes. And he knew in his heart that she’d killed him, that other Hadrian, in her world.

He wonders in how many worlds he has died. Probably a lot. Probably more than he wants to know.

He can feel the sword go through him. Throndir shouting, and Kodiak barking. The glimpse of the sun through the tower window as he falls to his knees. Blood running down his arms and through his fingers, except he _can’t feel it in his right arm, he can’t feel anything except cool stone, and he dying, he’s--_

Someone is tugging on his sleeve.

“You were, uh, breathing a little weird,” Hella whispers apologetically,  “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Hadrian orients himself. He is at a inn. South of Rosemerrow. He is fine.

“Sorry,” he whispers into the darkness at the same time Hella also blurts the word.

“I’m fine, I just--. Just tired. Just thinking too much.”

“I can read you this stupid book if that helps.” she says wryly, “It's really boring.”

He smiles, still facing away from her. “Uh, Thanks. But I’m okay now.”

He closes his eyes.

 

 

He doesn’t dream of the hilltop.

Instead his dreams are confusing swirl of images that seem to shatter like ice into thousands of crystalline parts when he tries to hold on to one. The shadow of a wolf entering a cave. The model boat in Jericho’s room. The moonlight hitting Hella’s hair as she led an army of anchor towards him. The sound of waves.

 

 

He wakes up the smell of flowers. Wait, not flowers exactly, but sweet tea from Rosemarrow.

He sits up.

“Oh, hey. Hi.” Hella says, giving her kettle a vaguely embarrassed look. He grins despite himself. Hella Veral, Star slayer, Queen killer, lover of hot beverages and kitschy food. It was endearing in a way.

She looks protectively at the kettle again. “I only boiled enough water for one”

“Okay,” he says.

She gives a reluctant sigh, “You can have half, I guess.”

“Sure,” he agrees.

She filled two tin cups, and he moves down beside her, so they are both seated on the floor, leaning back on the bed. It’s comfortably quiet. Hadrian tries to push all the grief and fear to the back of his mind again. There is so much left to do. He has to be strong.

“We should go drinking,” Hella says suddenly.

“Now?” Hadrian asks, confused.

“No. After. After the towers, and we fix whatever going on with--” she makes a loose circular hand gesture with her hand, “with the everything. I know that’s probably not really Samothes approved--”

Hadrian grimaces, thinking of the wine on Samot’s sigil.

“--But we should get go drinking. All of us. Or just throw a really crappy party. Everything sucks, I don’t know, we deserve to have a vacation from all of this,” she finish, and looks at him-- raw, and hopeful, and -- something else, unknown. Something they haven’t defined yet.

He wants, briefly, to put his hand on hers. To ask her if she actually thinks that they will really make it out this alive. Both of them. That she won’t betray them, that he won’t push her too far. That they both won’t just run out of luck and gods.

He doesn’t. He just laughs softly, looking away. “Sure. We can do that.”

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
